Soul Pressed Poetry

Poetry that comes from our soul.

what a joke (25 Jan 2008)


fuckin joke, grumpy as hell
how did I manage to constellate
such a boring hangover
  of a personality

Jesus! What a gip
I feel the stickiness in
Hardening into evidence

(proving my mind right)
  I barely feel
  I barely think
  I barely do

  I barely be
I’m subject to less than life
I don’t fit wholesomely anywhere
Gliding in leaving no impression

Why am I even here?
What can I possibly give!
I am no better than a satsang
Of grasping, dispearing seekers

I’m no better than the dull
Whitted questions from self
  Reinforced egoing
I’m the boring side of subtle

The unreceptive side of the moon
The dying light of has-been here
Is this me for this life?
Can I accept such a dreary bland path?

Projecting only humble love
To some sham more sham than me
The mountain, the mountain
What a crock. I don’t feel

A thing towards the mountain
I am inconsequential to this
I climb it
It thinks nothing of it

Oh, Ok, I’m not the doer
It comes to me and then
Ignores me

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